


what he would have sung

by dreamsoverdeath (dheiress)



Series: character studies [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24679867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/dreamsoverdeath
Summary: How does a viscount become a bard, anyway?(What little is left of his pride hurts and like always Jaskier pretends everything's fine through singing and fucking.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: character studies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777162
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	what he would have sung

_Her current is pulling you closer_

_And charging the hot, humid night_

The lute the elves gave him is truly a special one, no matter how Jaskier pulls angrily on the chords the notes still come out sweet and melancholy. Although perhaps that last one is just his imagination because the barmaidens are all cooing over the lyrics, most probably thinking what a love song this is. The dark haired one plops another mug of ale in front of him, teeth glinting in mischievous charm as she says, "That's a pretty love rhyme, bard, sing it again."

No, no. Why can't they see, if Jaskier was ever going to make a real love ballad it would not be about a kiss that destroys logic and reason. It would be about sand on his toes, the waves crashing around his legs, the warmth of coastal breeze on his face. It would be about laughter and dancing under the moonlight.

It would be about, about someone with snow white hair and eyes that change colors as easily as its owner's mood, amber for when things are somber, green for when everything's a win and black for when there's no turning back, about kisses upon a strong stubbled jaw, about muscles rolling under his fingertips-

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

_Fuck_ , how many mugs has he drank now?

It doesn't matter.

He downs the ale in one gulp and the bar crowd cheers as he raises it up.

"Another verse," they chant, "another verse!"

And so another verse he sings.

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool_

_Better_ _stay out of sight_

His parents paid a hefty sum for his education, he thinks. They wanted him to prepare for the possibility of Lordship, he thinks.

Did they know how literacy was taught in that temple? The bared asses and the thick cane striking them. Ten for every syllable pronounced incorrectly and twenty for every letter written wobbly. The fingers trailing a second too long on stung skin. He thinks not. He hopes not.

And to think he only started appreciating poetry at the twilight of his teenage years.

"Is that why you grew up loving smacks against your lily white ass, you perverted little bard?"

Squinting, Jaskier looks back behind him where the voice comes from. His face is square, chin lightly clefted and stubbled. His hair is blonde, if Jaskier squints further it can look like white from this distance. His eyes shines amber from the pale moonlight that trickles into the room and Jaskier almost calls out a name he's trying to forget.

There's another slap on his ass and laughter bubbles out of Jaskier's throat.

Of course, how could he forgot?

Time slows down and it feels as if he's floating. Gently he falls and bounces off on a cloud. He sees the tips of his hair, damp with sweat flying over his brows, a blurry foreground to the sharp background of a grainy wooden ceiling.

His body settles down and his legs are parted. Or had he parted them himself?

Not that it matters, there is a body moving above him already and a tongue sinking into his mouth. Jaskier wraps his arms around the broad shoulders, his legs around the narrow hips and he moans loudly when the cock slides inside him. If he angles his head right, he can pretend it's someone else fucking him tonight.

_I’m weak my love, and I am wanting_

_If this is the path I must trudge_

"How does a viscount become a bard, anyway?" she asks, her nails lightly tracing sinuous curves on his shoulder down his forearm.

He grins at her, hopes she doesn't feel his naked body constricting in alarm beside hers.

"I imagine with a great deal of dissent from his parents and peers, my lady."

Her nails dig deeper into his flesh, not enough to draw blood but enough to leave stinging red swirls on it.

"Is that how it was for you, Viscount de Lettenhove?"

Ah.

"Lady Elena, I can explain-"

She smiles savagely at his expression and her fingers turn to claws gripping his arm.

"It's not even about that deception, Viscount. My friends already told me about you, the runaway noble running around as a dirty bard. What I'm angry about is last night-"

"I'm sorry for not fully satiating you," he starts to choke out in pain but as sudden as they clamped around her fingers let him go. He glanced down, his flesh has raised into angry little hills from where her nails bit down.

"I know I'm seeking pleasure from men not my husband," she sniffs, "but at least I have decency to be honest about it and not have my mind wander to another while my body is intimate with one of my lovers."

Oh.

Jaskier bites his lips, his clothes is on her side of the bed but he's afraid to be clawed into bloody shreds if he tries to bravely and swiftly clamber over her to get his articles.

"Sing to me," she orders, and there's a steely glint on her eyes that has his member stiffening into attention, so Jaskier obeys.

_I welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance_

The story, the song, it would have gone something like this:

Somewhere in the coast  
Where they can never be lost

Hands upon hands upon chest upon chest.

The waves and the breeze singing their own song.

Two sets of foot steps in the sand.

Pale skin slowly glistening into bronze under the sun.

Lips upon smiling lips, breath upon laughing breath.

Salty air tousling snow white hair, water playing around his knees.

Fingers intertwined.

Heart upon beating heart.

(But this vision will remain only in Jaskier's foolish dreams, a story unwritten, a song unsung.

A love unrealised.)

_Geralt_ , he would have sung, all of the hot days and cold nights to come.

_Geralt._

_Garrotter, jury and judge_


End file.
